Appetite For Destruction
by rough-em-up-ressler
Summary: (Rated M due to Drug and Alcohol Trigger Warning) Bucky/OC Bucky struggles with the person he's become as the Winter Soldier, and finds himself surprisingly tangled up with a woman as destructive as he is.
1. Chapter 1

**Bucky/OC fic set after Civil War but in a sort of alternate timeline where Bucky doesn't go back under.  
The first two chapters will be posted simultaneously. **

He had wanted to go into hiding on his own, but Steve Rogers wouldn't hear of it.

"Technically, we're both criminals." He'd insisted as they ducked into his newest getaway vehicle to discuss their next move.

"You'll be cleared soon though-"

"Maybe you will be too."

"With all due respect, Steve." Bucky sighed, turning away from his friend to face out of the window, "There's a big difference between forgiving the nation's sweetheart, and forgiving a former assassin."

"I'd appreciate it if going forward, we removed the term 'nation's sweetheart' from play." Steve grimaced. Bucky swivelled back around to face him, with a wry smile.

"Don't lie. You love it."

Steve cleared his throat, suddenly looking quite serious. He gripped Bucky's shoulder in a supportive gesture. "Not if it means I can't help you."

And so it was decided. Romanoff was providing them with the co-ordinates of a series of safe houses they could lay low in, until their legal situation became less murky, at which point either she, or someone she trusted would come and retrieve them from hiding. Or not. There was still a chance Bucky would have to stay gone.

They drove for hours. Steve in the car, Bucky tailing him on a motorbike- Bucky thanked himself for opting to come on a separate vehicle, looking through the dusty back window of Steve's car at the super soldier, crammed into the driver's seat, shoulders hunched and grazing the car door on one side. A clown car, Bucky thought to himself with a small smile. Eventually, the window of the car rolled down and he saw Steve's head poke through.

"This is us!" He yelled over the noise of the wheels on the open road, and indicated with his head that they should take a sharp right.

It was little more than a shed on the side of the road, with a door, once painted red, rusted shut. Bucky flexed his metal fingers and wrenched it open.

"This better be the right place." He grumbled. He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the light, slowly realising something that made him think about retracting his statement, "Steve. There's only one bed."

His friend chuckled, moving past Bucky, who's eyes were wide with panic, to the small table next to the single bed, sliding it over to reveal a small metal panel with a key pad. He typed in some digits and then crossed the room to where a few floorboards slid back, revealing a hole in the floor, and a metal ladder. He turned and took a few steps down the rungs, until only his head and shoulders were visible.

"Safe house." He smiled. Bucky rolled his eyes at him, and followed.

* * *

Their accommodation was basic, a little clinical, but sufficient. They had a small kitchen, a bathroom, and to Bucky's extreme relief; two separate beds big enough to accommodate for the enhanced soldiers.

Steve walked over to a little black table, dusting off imaginary lint with one arm as he set it out in the middle of the room.

"We could play cards here!" he suggested with enough enthusiasm to make Bucky's heart sink.

Hours of solitude, driving along with his own company had buried Bucky deep in his thoughts. Steve had done so much for him, and had risked even more that he felt it was only fair to try and humour him with empty smiles and smart little comments to try and replicate the man they had both left behind in 1945. Although his loyalty to Steve remained, other parts of that person were harder to access. He'd lost his metal arm to Tony Stark, and now sported a new prosthetic, however he couldn't help but feel like the Winter Soldier's metal arm was a good comparison for the man he was today. Somewhat alive, fully functioning, but not able to feel the way he used to.

Being around Steve was difficult for him, he struggled to process humour and compassion the way he knew he was supposed to and he saw the disappointment in his friend's eyes every time he failed to understand a reference to their past lives, or even worse when he knew what Steve was talking about but had changed too much to find it amusing. There was something horrible about looking back on familiar memories with your own, unfamiliar mind.

And then there were times when he wished that, rather than have himself change and revert back to the old Bucky Barnes, Steve could learn to follow the person he was now in the same way that he hopelessly believed in his old friend from Brooklyn. But what he'd really focussed on during that long ride down hopeless roads on his motorcycle was the fact that he had no right to friendship of any sort, as the eyes of those he tortured and killed floated past him. All Bucky really wanted was a release, from all sides of himself, all the competing James Buchanan Barnes' who wanted to take control of his mind, for better or for worse.

"So what do you say Buck?" Steve motioned to the table.

"Uh," He faltered, already seeing budding disappointment in his friend's face "I dunno Steve, we've been driving since last night. Maybe we'd be better of getting some sleep, you know? I know we've reached the safe house but it's best to stay as alert as possible." He sighed, feeling like a cheap Steve Rogers animatronic, parroting his friend's language back at him so that he'd sympathise with his logic.

"Of course. Good call." Steve smiled, and made his way over to his bed, pulling back the covers to settle in, "we can play cards later"

Bucky nodded, and from his sitting position on his own bed he rolled over to face the concrete wall, staring at it for what seemed like an age before he eventually fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

Somehow, every time Bucky had a nightmare, he woke up with the taste of blood at the back of his mouth. That was a common feature on his old missions, the Winter Soldier played with knives and specialised in combat- unsurprisingly, his kills weren't always the cleanest. He had butchered his victims and was familiar with the feeling of the odd spurt of blood on his face, which he'd later have to wipe off his lips, or lick from his teeth if he had been grinning- in the calm after the storm. The calm after the kill.

Bucky's stomach lurched and he sat up, grinding his metal fist into his flesh palm. He needed to get out, get some air, before he did something he'd regret. He looked over at Steve who still slept soundly. It was 9:30 in the evening; they'd been asleep for four hours. Bucky shuddered off his horrible dreams and slowly and quietly ascended the ladder. Once he was in the 'façade room' he wandered over to the rusty tap in the gaping wooden counter. He doubted it would even work but when he twisted the tap backwards with a thrust of his wrist, it belched out a murky liquid before running clear. He splashed cold water on his face and straightened up. Time to go.

Back on the road there was little in the way of interest, a spattering of motels and boarded up shop units, buildings made of wooden panels that were cracked and buckling into the ground. A few miles along he saw a roadside bar that, being the only establishment that was open on the entire stretch of road, actually seemed to attract a little bit of buzz. Bucky knew he couldn't get drunk but at the very least, he could go somewhere where everyone else would be. Loud music could drown out the noise in his head, people would be chattering away but not about him, not to him. He could take a break from misery for a night. Maybe even sit with a cold beer in his hand and try and remember the sweet power of intoxication.


	2. Chapter 2

**((Continued))**

He let the engine purr into silence and he swung a leg over the bike to stand on the dusty ground of the parking lot. The cheap, bright lights invited him in- people stood on the corner, women in scanty outfits stood grazing their talons across the chests of men in leather jackets. In the shadowy darkness of the back of the bar, among glinting trashcans, a couple pawed at each other, animalistic.

He took a deep breath and walked towards the door.

A young woman with wild bolts of brunette hair and an obnoxious painted red smile swerved in front of him.

"You're new." She giggled.

He rolled his eyes and brushed past her, making his way to the bar. He had to admit, it was nice to be in the company of people who weren't evil, but were by no means good. People who wouldn't raise an eyebrow at his threatening appearance, that would assume he'd done bad things but wouldn't ask, wouldn't care.

"Beer." Bucky told the bartender. He grunted in response.

He was about halfway through his drink when the girl who had greeted him on his way in came stumbling up behind him for a top-up. As she teetered over, her black tights caught in a stray nail loosely hammered into his barstool, and ripped a wide gash as she hopped up and leaned over the bar, flat on her stomach.

"Same again?" The bartender asked. She threw money down on the bar as a reply. Realising her tights had ripped; she looked down and brushed her leg casually as if swatting a fly.

She turned and leaned her elbows on the bar as he prepared her drink, eyes unfocused. She came to a little, and that was when she noticed Bucky again.

"You're the Winter Soldier, aren't you?" she narrowed her gaze.

"I-" Bucky sputtered, choking on a sip of beer. In an instant he was out of his seat and pressed up against her, looking down his nose at her defiant stare. He gripped the bar on either side of her. "Keep your voice down." He snarled

"This guy giving you trouble, Gina?" the bartender came back over, looking at them both levelly, sitting her drink down beside them.

"Not yet." She smiled infuriatingly, not breaking her gaze on Bucky, "I was just getting his attention."

The bartender nodded and backed off, leaving them still staring at one another, both of their chests heaving.

* * *

"How the hell did you know who I was?" Bucky demanded, once he'd dragged her by the arm to a corner booth.

"You've been on the news," She dusted off her arm in distain, shooting him a glare "a few times."

Paranoia crept up Bucky's throat, he looked around himself frantically, knowing that if this woman could see through him then anyone could.

"You know, if you'd just cut your hair-" she muttered, looking off

"I don't trust people holding sharp things near my head," he raised a hand to shut her up as he continued searching for suspicious faces.

She smiled a dangerous smile and leaned back in the booth.

"No, I don't suppose you would. I'm Gina, if it matters to you."

"It doesn't" he growled.

"You're kind of rude," she laughed, "and I'd relax, nobody here is going to know who you are, they won't be as up to date on current affairs as I am. I'm actually from New York."

Bucky laughed harshly, "No, you're not." He'd somehow developed a kind of radar for these things.

"In recent years, I have been," she said, quietly, looking at the table.

Finally realising there was no present threat, Bucky leaned back on his side of the booth, "I knew coming here was a mistake."

"It doesn't have to be," she smiled coyly. Although Bucky found her entire manner repugnant, he had to admit she was physically attractive. Or she would be, were it not for her smudged makeup and the sheen on her forehead, the damp roots at her hairline, sweating from dancing. She had a loose look in her eyes, which seemed to be swimming around under a shallow, watery sheath like she wasn't all quite available, and when he looked closely he saw one of her lateral teeth was chipped.

The back door of the bar swung open and the bartender invited in a young man. A few people took notice and started to rummage in their bags, in their pockets like they were searching for a church donation. The bartender caught Gina's eye, indicating towards the newcomer with his head.

"Someone you know?" Bucky asked, taking another swig from his bottle.

Gina looked torn, wanting to stay and wanting to go. Badly wanting to go, She threw him a hurried grin, "If you'll excuse me. It's a Saturday."

With no more explanation than that she dashed out of the booth and over to the man, digging in the pockets of her shredded black shorts. He saw her hand money to the man and he chatted to her, friendly, for a few moments before he took her hand, pressing something into her palm. It was graceful, like a choreographed routine.

She teetered back over to him, almost revitalised with excitement. He wasn't sure he could handle much more of her presence; she got too far under his skin.

"Care to join me?" She asked, waving a small sachet of white powder in the air.

He pulled a face, "No thanks."

"Don't look at me like that, I only dabble." She smiled

"Then you've overbought."

"I was taking you into consideration." She retorted, "No good deed."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"If Captain America can't get drunk," Gina teased, "Does that mean the Winter Soldier can't either?"

Bucky froze "Where did you learn that?"

"It was the answer to a trivia card in a board game my family used to play at Christmas."

It was strange hearing that, even stranger for her to say it. Gina was a million miles away from connotations of Christmas, and family board games.

"Cute." He muttered, "And no. I can't"

"This might be worth a try." She smiled with one side of her mouth. She did that a lot, Bucky noticed.

His brows creased and she could tell that despite himself, he was genuinely considering it. Bucky's mind travelled back to his nightmare that evening and he looked hard at the clear sachet in her hand.

He sighed. He didn't even need to say anything.

"Follow me." She grinned.

* * *

Bucky was dubious that the drug would take effect, but it did.

Although his last memories of intoxication were distant, very distant, and this was entirely different from being drunk, he'd still achieved the release he'd been looking for. His wide-eyed companion even seemed more bearable in his current state.

"Dance with me," she breathed.

Confused, Bucky leaned forward to take her in a dance hold, realising slower than usual that he was wrong.

She laughed, and pulled him by the arm. He realised he was laughing too.

He stood, moving side to side in time with the music, with no idea how people danced to this kind of song. She knew how, she glittered when lights caught the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"What is this music?" he leaned forward and asked her, shouting in her ear.

She threw her head back, laughing, and her hair fell in sheets over her shoulders.

"Appetite for Destruction. Guns 'n' Roses." She told him, speaking the words deliberately, like she was tasting them.

He nodded, absorbing this.

"Tom knows it's my favourite, he puts the album on sometimes." She nodded towards the barman with a sly wink.

"It's fast." He told her.

"Is that bad?" She looked up at him, her eyes playful. He watched her hot, red, wet mouth move as she spoke.

And then he was kissing her, aggressively, compulsively. He hadn't kissed someone in a long time and it evoked a ravenous hunger he had long forgotten about.

They danced; or rather she danced around him for a few more songs. Every now and then their faces would crash together, hurriedly, clumsily. They'd kiss. The bar got a little quieter and they sat back in the booth. He impulsively bounced his leg up and down underneath the table.

"You know," she said softly, her lips trembling a little, "I'm not usually-"

She paused.

"I never used to be like this."

"M'kay" he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. She kissed him again, a slower, deeper kiss than last time.

"Let's get out of here." She whispered against his ear.

He nodded, and she led him by the hand, out of the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

"Your place or mine?" wasn't really a consideration when 'your place' was a hole in the ground with a sleeping Captain America in the twin bed opposite you. And it turned out Gina's place was quite a trek away.

"Are we lost?" Bucky demanded, beginning to get a little nervous about the fact he was a walking target on the open road

"No." Gina replied. She looked up at him, amused.

"We're in the middle of nowhere." He swallowed, narrowing his eyes at her. There was every chance she was a Hydra operative, leading him out into an open space by the open road, waiting for a black van to drive past and capture him.

She examined his face again and suddenly laughed. It jolted him a little and he scowled at her.

"You're getting suspicious of me- you're paranoid." She told him matter-of-factly.

"Shut up" he glared back, his state of mental health was not up for discussion. She was probably trying to get him to open up and lull him into a false sense of security.

"No, I mean it's a side effect of cocaine." She told him, laughing even more at his misunderstanding.

"Great." Bucky huffed.

"But we are lost, yes." Gina said, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a hipflask. She took a long swig and shuddered.

He made a low growl. He really, really, really disliked this woman. But it had been so long since he'd been with someone, and he knew that on the road like this, relationships weren't to last. Better he messed around with someone like her than some nice, quiet girl that deserved more.

"Wait, what does that sign say?" She stopped short and he almost tripped into her. He could see her struggling to focus her eyes on the sign, a few meters in front of them. To be perfectly honest his vision wasn't the clearest either.

"There's a motel 500 yards from here. I think. Is that your motel?" He asked.

"Yeah, I reckon so." She mumbled, and they made their way forwards.

* * *

Bucky definitely was not impressed by the dwelling of his companion for the evening- her entire room was strewn with clothes, empty glass bottles of cheap vodka were haphazardly thrown into the mix, there was an ashtray surrounded by an infestation of cigarette butts, like papery beetles crawling to the grave. Assorted drug paraphernalia.

It was exactly as he'd pictured.

"Home, sweet home," she commented dryly as they stepped in.

As she reached in to flick the light switch, Bucky grabbed her by the arm and spun her round, their mouths meshing together before she could catch a breath. Desperately, she grabbed on to his metal shoulder for support as she lost her balance from shock. He used the momentum of sudden closeness and propelled his lower body forward; they clung to one another, suspended, suspecting that their balance would not hold out for long.

He grasped the backs of her thighs with both hands and she understood immediately, springing her legs up and around his waist with his guidance in the effortless movement of his wide-spanning hands, almost encompassing the width of her leg entirely. Once she'd gotten a good grip, digging her fingernails into the muscles of his back, he entangled his hands in the mess of her hair, sweat and brittle hairspray. They stopped for a breath, for a moment, and she narrowed her eyes, swinging her hips forward and taking him by surprise. He fell back, holding her, onto the dusty mattress behind. She cackled slightly.

"Did I take you by surprise, Winter Soldier?"

"Sort of," he grinned.

Her small hands worked deftly, pulling off his shirt in record time, as he fiddled with the buttons on her shorts, yanking them hurriedly off her hips.

She slowed suddenly. He knew what she was staring at.

"It's a temporary fix," he motioned to his metal arm with his flesh one.

Flesh scarring welded with metal at his shoulder, and then, soldered on to what was left of the high-tech metal arm Hydra had given him, was a far rougher rendering of a similar prosthetic.

"Does this work as well?" she asked

He shrugged, "Mobility's about the same, but it's not as… pretty. And I've got a lot less feeling in this arm. Practically none."

Playfully, she arched an eyebrow, drunk and breathless. He noticed that she had made a tiny fist. He watched it pound the metal.

"Nothing?" she quizzed, shaking out her sore hand.

He rolled his eyes, catching her by the elbows and pulling her down on top of him.

* * *

Their sex was not affectionate, far from it. It was hot and spiteful; it evoked a loathing of themselves, with each of them almost competitively striving to prove to themselves and each other that they were a bad person, a worthless person. It was heated but the only passion was in the spitting rage they both felt at the world around them, and the people they'd become within it.

Afterwards, Gina pulled on an old t-shirt. It had clearly been designed to be worn by a man, and in jagged white writing across the black fabric was scrawled the name of a band Bucky hadn't yet discovered. They were probably awful.

But more noticeably, this t-shirt had been sheared at the sleeves, lanced across the bottom with a pair of scissors so that no man could ever wear it again without exposing quite a bit of flesh.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, lying back against the headboard as he watched her dress.

She smiled at it fondly, "It belonged to someone from New York."

"An ex-boyfriend?" he mocked.

She threw him a sarcastic glare, "No, actually. It belonged to my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend. She left it at my place by accident and I found out."

Bucky stiffened. Before he'd fallen off the train, back in his own time, women being with other women wasn't unheard of but it certainly wasn't talked about casually. He understood attitudes were different now, which struck him as a good thing, but he was suddenly very paranoid about saying the wrong thing and betraying, well, his age.

"How…. Modern." He said, and instantly regretted it.

"Keep your slacks on, old-timer" Gina laughed, amused by his discomfort, throwing him his boxers, discarded on the floor.

Bucky rubbed his temple, then flipping his hair back from his face with his outstretched thumb and index finger.

"You really do need to cut that." Gina commented. She walked over to the chipboard dresser and reached inside a drawer, bringing out a pair of scissors that seemed huge in proportion to her slender hands. Her eyes twinkled playfully and her smile shot up the left side of her face, like it always seemed to do when she was playing with someone.

Bucky blinked, "No."

"Come on," she sashayed towards him with a slow smile, "Don't you feel far more at ease now?"

"I don't like that you're coming towards me with scissors," Bucky's face fell serious, he stretched out his hand to block her advances, "I might do something we'll both regret."

She ducked under his arm and snaked around his shoulder, so that she was crouched behind him with her thighs either side of his waist. There was a 'snip' and Bucky found himself looking at long strands of straight, dark hair on the bed sheet.

"We'll need to wait and see, won't we?" her cool breath tickled the back of his ear as she murmured playfully to him.

"What the fuck, Gina?" He whirled his head round, angrily, grabbing the front of her shredded t-shirt.

"Ah, ah, ah-" she wiggled a finger at him, holding the scissors beyond his reach, "You need to let me finish now- see?" she took his head in both hands and after a few moments of resisting her grip, he let her wrench his head round to look at a grubby mirror, leaning against the wall.

A chunk of his hair was visibly missing.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Bucky snarled, resigned.

"We'll soon find out," she giggled, reaching to the bed stand for her hipflask.

She took the scissors, trailing her fingers through another section of his hair, squinting at it in comparison to the section she'd already cut. Despite himself, he loved the feeling of her nails softly scraping his scalp as she sorted out each individual area. Every now and again she'd reposition herself for a better vantage point and he'd feel her soft, exposed skin brush his own.

Not only that, but it was the quietest she'd been since he'd met her, all those hours ago. He almost felt relaxed.

"Done," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair repeatedly, ruffling it in rhythmic tugs to shake out any of the hair she'd cut that was clinging on.

"It's not awful," she remarked, a little surprised

"It's not great either," he reprimanded. The image of his hair in the mirror was a little choppy and he had a suspicion that in the cold, sober, light of day it was only going to look worse. But what he wasn't ever going to admit to her was that a bitter nostalgia had started to rise up in his throat, because the silhouette that he cast on the wall beside them, despite being a little rough around the edges, was one that he hadn't seen since the year 1945. It was the silhouette of his former self.

Gina yawned and rolled over onto her side, "I'm going to sleep." She announced, too drunk to feel any shame at the abrupt end to the evening. Bucky shrugged and rolled over too, so that he shadowed the shape of her body with his own.

"That wasn't so bad was it?" she whispered, swivelling her head towards him momentarily.

He knew she wasn't talking about the impromptu haircut. Well, at least not solely that. He struggled for a response, but was saved as he felt her body go slightly heavier on the mattress beside him and he knew she'd fallen asleep.

"I had fun." Bucky admitted quietly, surprising even himself. Only once he'd said it, did he realise that it was true.

He'd had fun.


End file.
